Smother Me
by FaithfulLurker
Summary: Because not all scars are born of accident. Dean-centric, VERY dark. WARNING: self-harm, may be triggering. Please R&R.
1. Snuff by Slipknot

I suggest listening to this song when you read the rest of the story.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my muse. Okay, my muse owns me, but I still don't own anything,

"Snuff" by Slipknot

Bury all your secrets in my skin

Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins

The air around me still feels like a cage

And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again…

So, if you love me, let me go. And run away before I know.

My heart is just too dark to care. I can't destroy what isn't there.

Deliver me into my fate - If I'm alone I cannot hate

I don't deserve to have you…

My smile was taken long ago / If I can change I hope I never know

I still press your letters to my lips

And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss

I couldn't face a life without your light

But all of that was ripped apart… when you refused to fight

So save your breath, I will not hear. I think I made it very clear.

You couldn't hate enough to love. Is that supposed to be enough?

I only wish you weren't my friend. Then I could hurt you in the end.

I never claimed to be a Saint…

My own was banished long ago / It took the death of hope to let you go

So, break yourself against my stones,

And spit your pity in my soul.

You never needed any help

You sold me out to save yourself

And I won't listen to your shame

You ran away - You're all the same

Angels lie to keep control…

My love was punished long ago

If you still care, don't ever let me know…

If you still care, don't ever let me know…


	2. The Three Bedfellows

Pain was the single constant in his life. It was always present, but liked to mask itself in different forms. Sometimes, it was a murmur in his ear, harsh whispers spoken in cruel tones. Other times, it was a merciless torturer that wielded the precise tools needed to break him. Despite whatever shroud in appeared in, it was always faithful, loyal to its cause.

He felt pain with an icy, knife-keen awareness and knew it well. He also knew its bedfellows.

Disappointment, for instance.

He met with it at a young age, when he was fragile and wounded in ways no four year old should ever be. He was forever disappointed is himself; for never being good enough, for failing when failure wasn't an option, for not meeting the standards he had set for himself in effort to meet his father's standards.

He also met with another one of pain's good friends at that early age: tragedy. It was everywhere. It was always just around the corner, always the inevitable end to every prospect of happiness. It seemed that everyone who ever got close to him, everyone he foolishly allowed close to himself, left him one way or another. And it was always his fault: whether they plain abandoned him for something better, for something stable and safe, or they simply died. Of course, it was all his fault - his dad, his brother, his grandparents. They all died because he couldn't save them in time. Even the others, the ones who couldn't be saved, the innocent civilians who died at the hands of beings that shouldn't even exist; beings that he was supposed to stop before they could harm anyone. He shouldered that blame. He welcomed the guilt that gnawed at him endlessly, because he deserved it.

All of it just built up over time, overwhelming him. Inside, it was wrecking havoc on him; creating an ever-growing hurricane of turmoil.

The tremendous weight upon his shoulders was crushing him; bent on destroying him, leaving his bones as dust.

The devastation all around him: the eminent apocalypse that would cast the world in darkness and hellfire, all the innocent people that would perish for their foolish mistakes and clouded judgment; his foolish mistakes and clouded judgment. It made him tremble with regret and sorrow.

Living, or whatever you would call his pitiful existence, with it was a daily struggle, not only because it threatened to rip and tear him to shreds like the hellhounds did, but also the struggle of hiding it from his brother, keeping the mask up.

Because he was many things, but he wasn't one to wear his heart on his sleeves, at least not when he was around others. Although, the pain threatened to unmask him, to show what he really was past the brave face he wore.

No, he hid it well. All his emotions were caged up tight, blocked and barricaded. He had near perfected the charade a long time ago. It wasn't perfect yet, because sometimes, when he wasn't careful, his brother caught on, caught a glimpse of the pain hidden in the depths of his gemstone eyes. He always recovered quickly, though, never letting his brother see more than he could allow- never how deep the scars actually ran. Of course, that rarely happened because he's covered himself up for so long, hiding and lying was second nature.

Despite that, he's got so much more to hide now than ever before; chalk it up to another dirty little secret for the immeasurable pile, because not all scars are born of accident.


	3. I Never Claimed to be A Saint

In his sleep, Dean's body shuddered. His eyes were darting back and forth wildly beneath his eyelids. His mind was ensnared in a nightmare from hell. Images flashed in his subconscious, assaulting him with vivid snapshots of his time spent in the Pit.

With a jolt, he bolted awake, a scream permeating the empty motel room. Clouded jade eyes surveyed the room as his body quaked. Dean held his head in his hands, shaking as he tried to will away the ghostly images that were burned into his eyes.

He rubbed his face with tremulous hands and glided one through his glistening hair.

His entire body slick and sticky with sweat and the threadbare sheets clung to him.

Groggily, he climbed his way out of the bed; his movements were sluggish as an after-effect of the pain medication he took as a futile attempt to enter a dreamless oblivion the night before.

Absentmindedly, he noticed a note on the bedside table, no doubt from Sam, telling Dean where he had gone for the afternoon.

Without bothering to read it, he grabbed some clothes from his duffle and trudged his way to the bathroom to shower.

Switching the light on and closing the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked haggard; his face gray and devoid of color besides the dark purple shadows under his eyes that were a testament to his many sleepless nights.

A tremor wracked his frail frame as a memory of Hell captured his mind. The slideshow of images barraged him again, sending him reeling; unrelenting.

Struggling, he tried to push them away from his conscious into the dark corner of his mind where he kept all of his unsavory thoughts and memories.

Giving up on forcing them away, he let them wash over him; a tidal wave of grotesque crimson and flashing lightning. His body ached in the places where Alistair had cut and sliced at him, and his hands shook in remembrance of the horrific acts they had performed on the unfortunate souls that had been presented before him and his blade.

Unable to restrain himself, a sob escaped his pale rose lips and tears began flow softly down his face.

The reflection of a weak and broken man peered at him through the dirty glass and he felt disgusted with himself.

Getting undressed, he turned on the shower.

Before stepping in, he hurriedly raided through his toiletry bag, searching for his only confidant, his only true escape: cold, unforgiving steel.

Finding the tiny razor, he sighed in relief and stepped under the spray of the shower.

Grinning, he held it up to eye-level, marveling at how the light glinted off of its shiny surface.

He brought it to his lips and gave it a whisper of a kiss against its pale, sterling expanse; in payment and thanks.

He tested the arrow-like corner of the blade on his left index finger; a bubble of blood appeared instantly. His twisted grin widened and there was an unsound gleam in his eye at the prospect of such a release; his insides were churning and his heart pounded faster in anticipation.

That's what it was, this whole corrupted mess - a release. A release of the pressure inside him that was slowly suffocating him, threatening to pull him under the crashing waves that he barely managed to wade.

It was also a chance for repentance. So much blood had been spilled by his mistakes, by his own hands, even. It seemed fair, almost poetic, that he should spill his own blood in return.

The blood: the ruby treasure that pulsed through his veins. Always what he sought. He didn't do it entirely for the sharp ache that made him feel alive; he did it to _see_ that he was alive. It mesmerized him, caught his attention. Just seeing it was like a drug.

He raised his left arm and looked at the array of deep, angry red scars that decorated it from wrist to elbow. Some were faded pink; others were still raw and tender. A choice few were raised against his pale skin, while others were merely ghosts of the razor's travels. They were a beautiful masterpiece; a work of true art, done with an unhindered passion that only a truehearted artist could muster. Although, Dean thought with a dark chuckle, he doubted anyone else would see it in quite the same light.

He drew the blade up to his arm, about to add a few more strokes to the masterpiece, and his anticipation peaked; it had been so long, too long. Sammy had been hovering so much lately...

The thought made him stop for a moment. _Sammy. _What would he think of this, Dean wondered. He shook his head, it didn't matter; he was too far-gone already.

He set the razor along a patch of angry, raised slices. He pressed down and dragged it across slowly; shallow at first, but progressively getting deeper as he pressed down harder.

The blood swelled to the surface, quickly flowing down his arm. He leaned down and licked up the trail of rubies only for it to begin again.

Again and again, he dragged the hungry blade across until his arm was covered in fresh, wet kissed from his steel lover.

The blood covered his arm, flowing down from the slices in rivulets; pooling at the crease of his elbow.

Someplace far in his mind told him he needed to stop before he lost too much blood.

He held his arm under the now cold spray of water and rinsed off the blood and the blade.

Quickly stepping out of the shower, he dried off, careful not to leave telltale traces of blood on the towel. He grabbed some gauze from their First Aid kit under the sink and wrapped his arm up tightly. He looked intently to see if it had bled through; it didn't.

He hastily hid the razor back in its resting place, and moved to get dressed. He was glad to see that even in his groggy stupor earlier, he had picked out a long sleeve shirt. Pulling his clothes on, he winced in satisfaction when the movements pulled at his arm.

He sat out on the bed, staring blindly at the television while he waited for Sam to return.

Not long after, he heard a key being put in the lock and Sam opened the door, arms laden with notes.

"It's good to know that while I was out researching this case, you planted yourself in front of the television. Real nice," Sam griped, setting the notes on his bed.

Dean stood up with a cheeky grin in place upon his lips, "I try, Sammy. Now, let's go eat; I'm starving."

He gave Sam's shoulder a pat, and walked out the door; Sam trailed behind, exasperated.

With a smile, Dean inconspicuously applied pressure on his aching arm, rejoicing in the sharp stab it sent shooting up his arm.

Pain. Disappointment. Tragedy.

Release.


End file.
